


möbius strip in love

by edbloom



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coming of Age, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Relationship, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29173923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edbloom/pseuds/edbloom
Summary: Mark realizes he’s in love with Renjun on New Year’s Eve, sitting on the steps of his family home in New Jersey while Renjun is an ocean away.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57
Collections: Love Dream 2020





	möbius strip in love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonfleur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfleur/gifts).



> hiiiiii
> 
> this is probably the most incoherent thing i've ever written but i was actually working on another prompt that you gave when all of a sudden! markren sings 10,000 hours and i just knew i had to write this.
> 
> i hope you like this!! its just blurbs of domestic moments between roommates!markren and mark's early adult angst but nevertheless, enjoy !!

Mark doesn’t realize how much of a life he’s created in the small spaces of their dorm room until he’s folding his clothes back into his suitcase.

It’s just winter break, he reminds himself. But seeing the barren drawers of his dresser makes the ice at his throat harder to swallow. He looks around, at the pictures, playbills and polaroids stuck to the walls, tapestries and embroidery hoops hung above his bed and the one adjacent to his, the empty flower vases and trinkets of places he knows him and his roommate have never been to. 

Mark looks around and he doesn’t want to go. Home didn’t have the memories he had here, home had a work-oriented mom and a busy dad, struggling to pay attention to his four children. Home had silence, not quiet, not soft typing or soft humming, not a slow hum of a guitar strum and a subtle Justin Bieber tune. 

Home didn’t put him at ease. Home meant balancing responsibilities and the hollow vacant part in his chest where content used to sit. University meant overworking himself to the bone, allowing Mark to ignore it, ignore the longing, yearning for something beyond what he can have.

Mark doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to spend the holidays alone either.

“Hey, Markie. You okay?”

And then everything melts to a lull.

The first time Mark meets Renjun, it’s in front of their dorm room. 

“Hey! Mark, right?” Mark hears him before he sees him. He turns and he sees Renjun for the first time, mousy brown hair and snaggletooth smile—Mark stores the knowledge of his pebble soft voice in the deep crevices of his mind, in a chest with the hours of learning how to pronounce his name right through Duolingo and Dejun’s midnight calls.

“Yeah,” Mark says, preparing himself. “Renjun—Huang, right?” The slick of his sweaty palms make an itch out of the stray hair of his neck. Renjun smiles, so small Mark could fit it in his palm.

(If Mark knew Renjun better during that time, he would realize that was Renjun’s smile when he was pleased about something, the smile he tries to hide because he doesn’t deem it significant enough to show. Mark thinks it’s blinding, nonetheless.)

“Yup,” he chuckles before gesturing for the door. “Shall we?” 

Mark turns the door knob and something drops dead in his stomach. He enters the room and he can feel that something waste away to the vultures and maggots.

219 is a desert, a grey carpet and two beds and dressers, no desks. It smells like dust and the tiger balm his grandmother keeps on her bedside table. 

Mark hates it—it feels sterile, clean, cold. It feels like nothing and it grates on Mark’s nerves.

Fingers itch on his wrist, eyes scan the room for something, and Mark knows he has a prominent scowl on his face. Feels the stretch of it on his lips and the scrunch of his nose. 

He’s about to sit in a corner and whine when he feels Renjun’s hand on his shoulder—light and warm—clapping on it like a father would, before entering the dorm too.

“Looks like we got a whole lot of decorating to do, huh?” It feels rhetorical, the way Renjun says it, but something compels Mark to nod as he steps deeper into the gray carpet. Maybe, it’s the optimism in his voice, that lilt in the way he spoke, like he knew Mark was three seconds away from a panic attack and was even closer to calling Taeyong to pick him up. Whatever it is, it helps Mark calm down—helps everything simmer to something controllable.

So instead of sitting in a corner, Mark rolls his suitcase inside and tells Renjun he wants the left bed.

It’s much later, when they’re both exhausted—Mark from emotional distress, Renjun from jetlag—both sitting on the ugly carpet, pizza box and two mini bottles of Coke in front of them.

“I want to make a home out of this,” Renjun whispers, staring at the printed posters he stuck to his wall. “I don’t think I can cope with homesickness, otherwise.”

Mark doesn’t know what to say to that so instead he keeps quiet, hums an assent. He understands, he just doesn’t know how to say it without sounding patronizing.

(Mark will learn soon that Renjun is a fan of these small, spontaneous revelations. Sometimes, he’ll admit something on their walks, a miniscule truth he holds close to his heart. Sometimes, Renjun will do it in the middle of a movie, or in the middle of reading a book, or in the middle of a lecture through text. Mark keeps all of these truths in the same chest stored in the deepest corner of his mind. A small corner Renjun managed to make a home out of.)

(Mark steps off the train and the first thing he sees is Heejin’s bleached highlights and color block sweater. He doesn’t make a gesture to catch her attention and instead, carries his gym bag higher on his shoulder and unlocks his suitcase. 

As he makes his way to her, Mark scans around the area for Donghyuck too. 

It’s a given that wherever Heejin was, Donghyuck was nearby. A twin thing, they said.

But for once, and this is something that staggers him, Mark doesn’t find him.

He wonders why he never thought of the possibility of them changing too.)

They get caught in the rain on a Saturday, it’s mostly because Mark forgot to check the weather forecast and doesn’t really know how to function without his older brother. 

They’re on their way back to their dorm from their shared lecture when continental downpour managed to happen.

Mark catches Renjun’s wrist as it starts to rain harder—he doesn’t even check if he has an umbrella or not, he already knows the answer to it. They try to run back into the building but they both realize too late that it was too far away. In desperation, Mark pulled them both to a nearby tree, filled with leaves and branches, it was hard to tell if the building behind it even had windows.

Ragged breaths is the only thing Mark can hear, besides the blood rushing to his ears and the continental downpour. He’s about to say something, something about taking a cab or waiting for it to stop—when suddenly, the rain starts pouring harder. 

Quick thinking, Renjun moves to sling off his backpack from his shoulders before covering them both with it.

(It’s too small for them and Mark contemplates if he should do the same.

“Mark, don’t even try.”

“Why not?” A pout on his lips.

“Your laptop is in there, dumbass.”)

Renjun is laughing when Mark looks at him, through dripping wet bangs. He’s wet too, drenched even. Baby blue cardigan sticking to his skin and hair on his forehead. Eyes bright and smile wide, as if they weren’t stuck in the middle of a storm and their backpacks aren’t exactly waterproof. 

They have no way of getting home and in a normal situation, Mark would be panicking right now. There would be bile rising in his throat and his wrist would be bright red from anxious scratching—but instead, right now, he laughs. Mark laughs because there was always something so compelling about how Renjun did, how he threw his whole body back. It was infectious and Mark lets himself get lost in it.

“Do you want to dance?”

“Hm?”

“Under the rain, I mean.”

Mark considers, takes a look at their bags laid against the trunk of the tree.

“Not today, maybe next time.”

Renjun just hums—it’s an EXO song, he realizes. He sways slightly back and forth before looking at Mark.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

(Next time happens on the rooftop of their dorm. Second semester of their third year, it was their 13th date and they danced to Rusty Clanton’s Novels.

But that’s much _much_ later on.)

When Mark loves, it's maddening. A forest fire in the middle of June, it's all encompassing, eating away every bit of fuel it can find, leaving nothing in its wake.

When Mark loves, it is whole heartedly, passionately, and burning hot.

Renjun places his head on Mark’s shoulder as he relaxes on the dance studio floors.

He has a recital soon, something he’s been preparing for two weeks now. A pas de deux with a classmate that should be here soon but told him she was going to run late.

Xiening is a senior, he had said, she’s got so much shit to do. Renjun said he was lucky he got her to agree.

A text on Mark’s phone reads a desperate message asking to bring him iced black tea if Mark could—as if Mark wouldn’t try. 

2:49 PM meets both of them in the studio, slumped on the floor as Renjun drinks his iced matcha latte and Mark eats his NY cheesecake. There’s a no eating sign beside the door that Mark pointed out as he came in, Renjun waved him off, saying he’ll clean the place anyway afterwards.

“Don’t you have class?” Renjun says, after minutes of silence.

“Cancelled,” Mark says. That wasn’t true, Callahan never cancels class but Renjun doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” Renjun says, relaxing again against Mark. “Thank you for this.”

“No problem.”

(Mark has a music theory essay on a symphony he hasn’t heard of due at 5 PM and Xiening doesn’t arrive until an hour later. 

Fortunately, Mark has a good class record and manages to ask for an extension until midnight.

Unfortunately, the essay takes him all night and Mark finds himself slumped on his desk the very next day with a stiff neck and sore eyes.

Fortunately (again), Mark has Renjun and wakes up with a hot pack beside him and pancakes with coffee. 

He also finds a thank you note, something that he presses in between the pages of his journal.)

Mark doesn’t remember what it was like before he and Renjun became close, before he heard Renjun cry at night and before he had the courage to confront him. Mark doesn’t remember a lot and it didn’t matter very much. 

But when he tries to recall moments in times like this, when he’s all alone in the dorm room, headphones on and the volume turned up, what he remembers isn’t very pleasant for him—lonely nights in the rooftop, jacket kept close to him as he holds a steaming flask of coffee in his hands, eating pizza outside of the shop alone because every seat inside is taken, staying in the studio overtime with an empty stomach and an even emptier mind.

He wants to say he remembers more, feels like Mark’s obligated to know more, but he really doesn’t remember and nothing in him wants to.

When Renjun loves, it's quiet. Subtle, the devil is in the details—in the way he saves a seat for you, the way he plays your favorite song before bed, the way he massages you when he notices the tension in your shoulders 

When Renjun loves, it is a shadow that lingers around you—company that never wavers.

"Do you ever think of something terrifying and imagine what life would be without it?"

He doesn’t really have the gall to tell Renjun _he_ was the most terrifying thing Mark can think of right now. 

And that the thought of him gone was even more terrifying.

The first time Renjun cooks for him is on August 10.

(Mark remembers mostly because it was the day he flunked one of his Music Theory quizzes and he’s never made a habit of letting go of failures.)

He walks into their dorm room and subsequently face plants into his bed, comforter almost suffocating him but Mark can’t really bring himself to care. 

“Uhm… Mark?” _Oh_. Mark didn’t realize Renjun was in the room. He lifts his face off the bed, just enough to peek at his roommate. Renjun looks at him from the top of his laptop, eyebrows scrunched in concern. 

“Yes?” Mark mumbles against the comforter. 

“You okay, bud?” Renjun asks, a smile tugging on his lips.

Mark considers if he should lie.

“Tired.”

Not quite a lie. 

It was true, Mark _was_ tired—he felt like his limbs were anchors and he couldn’t lift them off the ground. It just so happened that the tired feeling set in when he got his paper back, a paper he spent two sleepless nights studying for.

(He hasn’t learned it yet then but sometimes, hard work doesn’t mean a reward—that sometimes, sleepless nights don’t mean perfect grades. It’s a hard pill to swallow but Mark manages, some time between then and now. It takes dozens of breakdowns and plenty of ripped papers but Mark learns, slowly.

He never stops trying though, Mark learns that’s important too.)

Renjun hums, going back to typing on his laptop. Mark takes it as a cue that the conversation was over and closes his eyes, breathing slowly, feeling the way his chest expands and deflates with each inhale and exhale. 

He feels the fatigue spread now, from his limbs to his chest, and soon he feels himself slip into sleep.

(“Mine is failure, probably. I think I could live without failure, without the possibility of it. But then I imagine how it would be if I didn’t fail in anything, or if the people around me acted as if everything I do, I do in success, it doesn’t really make me feel happy. Isn’t that strange? Failure is the most terrifying thing in my life and yet, I can’t imagine myself without it.”)

When Mark wakes up, there’s a fresh bowl of soup beside his bed. It’s warm and steaming but most of all, it smells good— _really_ good. He can almost feel the way his stomach gurgles in hunger.

He goes to stir the soup when Mark realizes that the bowl looked familiar. Faded Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin on the front, Mark knows this, sees it almost every morning filled with Cheerios and milk. Mark looks at the other side of the room and spots Renjun on his desk, typing away with his back against him.

Mark tries to speak but his throat is dry and he ends up coughing instead. Renjun turns from his chair, surprised by the sudden noise. 

“Did you—uhm, make this?” Marks asks, softly, his voice still rough against the edges, pointing at the soup on the bedside table.

“Yeah,” Renjun said with a smile. “I just thought you looked a bit tired and might need a pick me up or something.”

Mark doesn’t exactly know what to say to that—when it comes to Renjun that always seemed to be the case, but tonight, he decides to try. At least as much as he is able to.

“Thank you. For this, I mean. But also for looking out for me, I guess. You didn’t have to do that, _but again_ , I’m thankful. Thank you.”

"Junnie, do you want your black tea with milk or not?"

"Hm… Actually, Markie, do they have matcha?"

"Uh—Yeah, they do. So a medium-sized matcha latte for you?"

"And an almond cookie, if they have."

"Okay, okay."

"Thanks, Markie!"

"No problem, Junnie."

Renjun cooks for Mark again the next night. _Hotpot_ , he said.

Mark takes the bowl with a smile. He checks the design and finds it isn’t Winnie the Pooh anymore, it’s faded and half-scratched out but Mark can still see the traces of Blue from Blue’s Clues on it. Lips lift in a small smile.

“Blue’s Clues, huh?” It’s teasing. Mark doesn’t know if Renjun will know but it’s meant to be teasing, he hopes he gets it.

Renjun’s eyes squint as the tips of his ears turn pink.

“It’s a good show,” Renjun says with a pout. Mark would panic—normally, he would, but the tone of Renjun’s voice is enough to tell him that he knew Mark was joking, and that he was teasing him back.

Mark wonders if everything was going to be this easy.

_Dear Morkle,_

_If Gmail is acting correctly and doing its job, you'll probably get this email on New Year's Eve._

_And I guess since it’s New Year’s Eve, I could indulge in some cheesy sentiment that I wish I could say to you face to face without cringing but can’t_ — _so here it goes._

_Minhyung Marktthew Lee,_

_Thank you. So much for being with me during my first year of university. You made the homesickness a lot easier to handle, even in the nights where it feels like it’s too much and you feel useless just comforting me because I won’t stop crying_ — _I assure, you’ve done a lot. When I moved to NYU, I expected to brave through with my sanity barely on the line, but surprise, surprise, the universe magically gave me you and that made the experience feel a lot easier to handle. I can’t tell you how much our late night coffee runs and rooftop hang-outs help lift the weight of the my shoulder, and at least for a few minutes, lends me enough time to forget all my responsibilities._

 _Thus, in gratitude, I have procured you some sort of gift. In your language of course (I’m talking about Justin Bieber and music if it wasn’t obvious). Brought on by a realization that theoretically,_ if you don’t look close enough _, I technically have known you for 10,000 hours._

_SO here ya go! Happy New Year!! Here’s to more adventures and misadventures with you ^^ !!_

_**[voice attachment] 10,000 Hours–Mark's Present.mp3** _

When Mark leaves for NYU, there's no Taeyong, or Donghyuck, or Heejin. Not even Mina. There's just mom and dad, with tight smiles and hopeful eyes.

He has a suitcase on his right hand and a gym bag slung on his shoulder, tight grip on the two things carrying 18 years worth of evidence of his existence.

Mark waves goodbye to his parents and feels nothing. It feels wrong. It feels numb. It feels like saying goodbye to something that was never there in the first place.

"Not so much oil!" Taeyong exclaims, his voice a hilarious mix of concern and amusement.

Heejin and Donghyuck are laughing while Mina is filming him. 

2:32 PM, Sunday.

Mark finds him in the common room kitchen in front of the stove with a spatula in hand and sputtering oil in his thrifted pan. His laptop is an arms length away from him, Zoom open as his siblings and best friend watch him attempt to cook.

It’s been a while since he called them up. The past times he tried to, it felt too much like ripping off a bandaid too soon. Mark reasons to himself he needed more time to heal, to grieve.

(Grieve for what? Mark hadn’t quite figured out, even now. But when he first left for college, it felt like a part of him was lost—or a part of him stayed in New Jersey and had to depart from his whole. 

Nevertheless, he was grieving, and everything he left behind on that train ride felt like calla lilies on a grave.)

The oil bubbles and Mark flinches away.

“Why the hell are you even trying to cook?” Donghyuck asks, his voice twined with laughter.

“Don’t you know, Hyuckie? It’s for his _roommate_ ,” Mina says it in a way that makes Mark’s eyes narrow. It’s teasing, he knows, and he also knows, Mina is implying _something_ , something Mark isn’t even sure about.

(Mina’s right.)

“Oooooooooh, the _roommate_ ,” Donghyuck says in a faux-scandalous voice while Heejin giggles a, “and they were roommates.”

“Shut,” Mark groans, turning down the heat using the spatula. Not very sanitary but Mark isn’t trying to get boiling hot oil on his skin either.

“I think your oil is hot enough, Mark,” Taeyong says with a smile. He looks okay. _Happy_ , Mark notes. New Jersey has never been kind to Taeyong, he’s glad Taeyong found a home in Chicago.

“Oh, okay.” He opens the carton of eggs on the counter top. Mark takes one before positioning it on top of the pan. There’s a very big chance he’ll fuck this up, a very big chance he’ll screw this up and might just settle for pancakes from the McDonald’s across the street or that one really good food truck near Broadway, but he wants to try. Mark wants to try and that’s why he has Taeyong here, why Donghyuck, Heejin and Mina are here. Because he needs help and he has people he can ask it from.

(Mark learned that one during his first year of college. It was a cloudy night on the rooftop, and all he remembers are warm hugs and a pebble-soft voice.)

Mark cracks it on the counter (“Flat surface,” Taeyong said) and it sizzles when it reaches the pan.

“I still don’t get it though,” Heejin says, above the sputtering oil and panicking Mark. “Why _are_ you trying to cook for your roommate? I mean, outside of your crush on him—”

“Hey!”

“Shut, it’s true. I minor in Psychology, I know these things—”

“Not even close to the truth,” Donghyuck murmurs. It gets caught by the mic anyway.

“Whatever. But Mark, you never really tried to cook for anybody before,” Heejin shoves Donghyuck to the side. “Even when you pushed Donghyuck off of the swings, you just apologized over and over again until he got pissed off and pushed you too.” Donghyuck turns to her with a grimace.

“Okay, first of all, I was five. Of course, I couldn’t cook, I couldn’t even reach the counter completely. Second of all, I bought him a bag of candies the next day,” Mark said, contemplating if he should flip the egg or not.

“Don’t flip it, Mark.”

“Wait, you did?” Heejin asks, suddenly closer to the camera.

“Yup,” Mark hums, sticking to poking the edges of the egg with the spatula.

“Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Probably because Donghyuck didn’t want to share it,” Mina snickers, still recording Mark. “Hey Lee, I think you should flick some oil on the yolk too and not just poke around on it.”

“Shut up,” Mark murmurs, pout on his lips, following what Mina told him. 

“Are you—Donghyuck Lee?” Heejin says, dead panning at Donghyuck before slapping his arm. Taeyong is watching them both with amusement in his eyes and Mark isn’t really sure anymore if Mina is still recording him, or she moved on to them.

“Leave me alone! That was literally 14 years ago,” Donghyuck whines, swatting Heejin’s hand away. “Also, Markie never answered your question. Come on, _hyung_. Answer.”

“You can take it out of the pan now, Mark,” Taeyong says. He nods before turning off the stove.

“Ass,” Mark whispers, as he takes his plate from the cabinet.

“ _Hyung._ ”

“ _Oppa_. Answer.”

“Fine,” Mark groans, spatula trying to carefully lift the egg from the pan. So far things have been good and he wishes his luck extends to the Spam he has in the fridge.

“I want to cook for him because he said that during his birthday, his aunt would always have freshly cooked food on the table by morning. It was tradition. And he also said that he missed home,” Mark says, eyes on the pan and never straying. He doesn’t really want to know what the expression on their faces are.

(Mark will never say this. Not out loud at least. Big gestures of affection were never his thing. Too much risk of disappointing the other person and too much risk of wasting time on someone who will never stick. 

Courage has never been one of Mark’s strong points. And it still isn’t. Mark guesses that the difference now is he’s willing to try, to walk on his own feet and see through the consequences. 

It isn’t a courage thing, Mark promises, it’s just trying.)

“Whipped,” Donghyuck stage-whispers to Heejin—probably, Mark still isn’t looking. He hears Mina giggle and Taeyong coo, and he feels the blood rush to his ears.

Donghyuck says love was a complicated thing for them, that love was either too much or too little. It’s a long-winded rant filled with teenage angst and back alley melodrama, but at the end of it all, he blames their parents.

Heejin tells him to not blame mom and dad, that she understands holding a slight grudge on mom, but never dad. Donghyuck says he will always blame both. Mark asks why. He looks at them and says it’s because no matter how much dad loves, he cannot make up for two—that no matter how hard he tried, dad is still dad and they haven’t seen their mom in a week. Heejin says something about that sounds wrong, like it’s wrong to blame them for something they can’t control, that it’s wrong to say one person can’t love for two. Mark says sometimes people can—sometimes, they can make up for the lack of it. Donghyuck tells him that dad isn’t one of them, that at the end of the day, dad loves like he’s waiting for mom to come home, welcoming her with a fresh warm meal.

Taeyong tells them afterwards that love was complicated, it’s true, but it’ll only take some practice before they learn the music of it. It’ll take a few hundred mistakes and a thousand apologies but it’ll be worth it. 

(Donghyuck says not everyone is Johnny, not everyone is willing to wrap up another chance in gift wrap every single time. Heejin tells him maybe he’ll have to look for someone like Johnny then, someone who’s willing to give another chance despite everything else. 

Mark doesn’t say anything.)

When Mark looks at Renjun, it feels like there’s a whole universe in his chest.

Living, breathing, growing. It feels like the roots of a willow tree are burrowing in his heart, long and old.

It feels like a lot to watch Renjun under the colored lights of a basement party, The Honeysticks playing in the background. 

He isn’t looking at Mark, focused on the way Lucas is desperately trying to win a ping pong match with Changbin. It gives Mark ample time to look at him, to look at the slope of his nose, the way the light bounces off his skin, and the way he tilts his head back to laugh when Changbin almost hits Yangyang.

Renjun looks younger like this, red solo cup in hand, leaning against the beat up gaudy green couch. Something about the electrostatic air and the bass-defying music makes Mark realize that Renjun is beautiful like this, ethereal in the way neon lights are romanticized.

Mark doesn’t stop looking.

“Did you know I used to be very good at ping pong?” Renjun says, before looking at him. Mark feels blood rush to his ears at the prospects of being caught staring. 

“Really?” Mark says instead of _sorry_. Renjun doesn’t mention it.

“Yup,” he says before taking a drink. “Four year champion during middle school.”

“What happened?” Something flickers in Renjun’s eyes.

“Dunno,” Renjun shrugs. “There’s just some things we grow out of, I guess.”

“I guess,” it takes Mark a beat to consider his next words. “I used to dance—in middle school, I mean. Well, actually up until freshman year of high school. Then I just stopped.”

Eye for an eye, Mark guesses.

“What happened?” Renjun parrots, turning to look at Mark properly. 

Mark wants to turn away, but the willow tree roots him in place.

“Grew out of it too, I guess.” _Wrong_ , a whisper breezes through him, _try again_. “I grew lazy, I mean.” _Again_. “Uhm—”

“Mark,” a hand comes to tap on his shoulders. He didn’t realize how tense he was. “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to.”

Mark looks him in the eyes and sees stars.

Eye for an eye.

“Taeyong went to college,” it slips out like water through his fingers, a stream he can’t hold in anymore. “Dancing was our thing, it didn’t feel right for me to do it alone.”

Renjun leans his head on Mark’s shoulder, gentle and soft. It forces Mark to slump it down, to relax and accommodate him.

“Thank you.”

A hand holds his.

“You’re always welcome.”

(Renjun tells him later on—around 3 AM. They’re both sitting on Mark’s bed, breathing off the party high, Mark’s head is on Renjun’s lap as he combs through Mark’s bleached hair. 

“I used to paint when I was in middle school, stopped when I got to ninth grade,” Renjun whispers against the whirl of the fan. Mark strains to hear him. “We were doing a piece for art class, expressionism inspired. It was during the time my paternal grandfather died and I decided to paint the street in Jilin I grew up in with shades of black and white.”

Mark hums, eyes closed, feeling the gentle press of his fingers on his scalp.

“There was a new teacher during that time.” Mark doesn’t like the inflections in his voice. They feel too bitter for Renjun, too much like knives and ice instead of the soft and thoughtful tones he associates with him. “Said something about it feeling lifeless, emotionless. It’s dumb, but I was 15 and impulsive. By morning after I decided, all my supplies were stuffed inside a box and shoved under my bed left to rot. I would’ve burned them all, if I could and if they weren’t as expensive as they were.”

He feels a sigh rake through Renjun’s whole body. “I think it really hurt because painting was the only thing I could express myself with. Painting was pouring myself into a canvas for the world to see and hoping they liked what they saw. And when they didn’t, I lashed out.”

“I don’t think it’s dumb,” Mark whispers, he wants to say more but words fail. Instead, he reaches for one of Renjun’s hands and softly places his palm on his.

“Thank you.”)

Mark feels like the world is crashing down on him.

Dramatic but with a thermos filled with coffee in his hands and his beat up parka on him, Mark doesn’t want to go to sleep tonight and wake up the next morning. He wants to fast forward to the part where he’s out of college and far away from New York, he wants to wake up tomorrow in an apartment somewhere in some place with someone who makes him happy.

Fatigue is seeping in the cracks and creases of his bones. It’s creaks to the joint and cold spots on his shoulders. Ice-cold air shrouds his hands and there’s very little control in him to not pour the scalding hot coffee into his hands for some sense of warmth. 

He’s watching the twinkle of the buildings below him and the bustle of the cars and cabs. It’s fascinating how lonely he feels during the day, despite sitting in a lecture hall filled with hundreds of students. Mark compares it to this, compares it to sitting on the rooftop, watching office buildings filled with people living their lives, unperturbed and unbothered. Mark wonders why it feels the same, so palpable in his fist. Outside looking in, he doesn’t like it, this feeling of isolation and otherness. He wants to go home, 

But at the same time, he doesn’t.

It’s complicated, Mark amends to himself.

Home meant watching his dad tire himself out between working and taking care of his kids, faking smiles and making too much for dinner and waking up only to find it’s spoiled on the table, not even a plate covering it. 

(Mark closes his eyes and sees his dad sleeping on the couch without a blanket, dinner on the table. The shower in the bathroom is on. He knows it’s his mom. Mark remembers taking the dinner and throwing it in a plastic bag, he stuffs it in a corner in his room and puts the bowl in the sink and goes back to sleep.

Mark doesn’t like to imagine what comes next, how happy his dad looked when he woke up, or how Donghyuck glared at him when he threw the plastic bag in the trash can at school.)

New York was complicated too. Mark doesn’t like to admit it to himself but if his dad called right now, he would take the midnight train back home.

(“New York is too close,” Mina said, swinging her legs idly as she sits on his bed.

“I know,” Mark had said.

Mina just sighed, throwing her head back against his comforter.

“You’re just hurting yourself.”

“... I know.”)

A part of him regrets picking NYU. If he could rewind back to when he was deciding where to go for university, he would’ve gone with Mina to UCLA, get far away from NJ as much as possible, make the trips home a lot harder. 

Now, he doesn’t have an excuse for not going home for Christmas. Not like Donghyuck and Heejin, or Taeyong, or Mina. The only excuse he has is how much of a bad son he’s being.

It makes Mark clench his jaw. 

The sound of the fire escape door breaks him from his thoughts, the creak of it enough to surface from the city noise. Mark turns to see who it is, a useless apology on the tip of his tongue. It dies down quickly when he sees it’s Renjun.

Renjun smiles at him, something small and soft. He has his arms wrapped around himself before he jogs to where Mark is. 

It feels like the thoughts drowning him have calmed down a bit, like he could stick his head out of the water for a while and breathe. Loneliness goes back to their corner, goes back to its home in Mark’s chest. 

(It doesn’t come out for a while.)

“Hey, Markie.” It’s a nickname Renjun picked one afternoon—on his bed as Mark laid in a starfish position and Renjun sat beside him, book in one hand and the other on Mark’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. 

“Hey, Junnie,” Mark whispers, careful with the way white puffs of smoke came out of his mouth. _It’s a childhood nickname_ , Renjun said when Mark asked about it, _Junnie_ was scribbled in waterproof ink on the inside of his backpack strap. 

“You okay?” Renjun asks, huddling closer to Mark. He welcomes him, arm swinging to pull Renjun closer.

“Yeah,” Mark says softly. “Just felt lonely.” Truth tasted foreign on Mark’s lips.

Renjun hums, resting his head on Mark’s shoulder. “Are you going home for Christmas break?”

 _No._ “Probably, I’m still thinking,” Mark doesn’t say that he doesn’t want to spend Christmas alone with both of his parents. “There’s a workshop they’re holding over break and I’m still considering if I should go.”

“I don’t really want to spend Christmas alone.”

Renjun shoots up from beside him, looking at him with wide surprised eyes. “Wait, I didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m not going home for Christmas,” Renjun laughs. Something churns inside Mark.

“You aren’t?”

“Nope,” he sighs, resting his head back on Mark’s shoulder. “Too expensive.”

It happens before Mark can stop himself. 

“I guess, I’m not going home either.”

(He never really saw himself as impulsive, but the thought of Christmas at home with just his parents feels too lonely and quiet.)

“Mark—”

“Don’t worry!” Mark spews out, as quickly as he can to stop whatever Renjun will say. “I didn’t want to go home anyway. My brothers and sister won’t be home, it won’t be the same.”

“Are you sure?” Renjun asks, eyeing him warily.

“Very sure,” Mark tells him with a tight smile.

Renjun isn’t exactly the reason why Mark wasn’t coming home, but he gave Mark a choice to run away for one more month. And Mark took it gladly.

The rooftop soon becomes their space, their little world away from everything else.

(“Markie, it’s okay to try, you know. You don’t have to get it perfect the first time around. It’s okay to ask for help when it doesn’t go your way. There will always be people willing to help, and hey! Look! I’m one of them! As long as it isn’t math, I’ll gladly help you.”)

(“You have to rest, Junnie. Come on, this has green tea. Drink.”)

“I hate how we can’t see constellations from here.”

“I have no idea why I’m even slightly surprised you know constellations.”

“It was a childhood obsession thing,” Renjun laughs. “Painted the milky way on my ceiling when we moved to our current house.”

“Really?”

“Yup, my mom just let me, said something about how she knew I wouldn’t mess it up.”

“... You think you could paint _our_ ceiling?”

“Ha! No, probably not. We won’t be allowed to… But we _can_ buy those glow in the dark stars.”

“And stick them into constellations?”

“Sure.”

“Where do we buy them though?”

“E-bay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

(They make a home out of their shoebox sized dorm.)

The sun has been beating down on his back now for the past five minutes and yet Mark can’t bring himself to lift up his head from his pillow, or at least, move out of the way.

Mark feels it before he realizes it.

The Narra tree rooting itself in his chest, the anchors on his hands and the boulder on his back. He feels it, tangible in the way he can’t even open his eyes.

Heavy, so heavy. 

He feels like he’s free falling with weights for wings and there’s nothing he can do about it.

(“How do you feel about this vase, Markie?”

“Junnie… Why would we need a vase?”

“You never know, dude. You never know.”) 

There’s a hand on his back, patting him softly—a small rhythm against the small of his back.

 _Renjun._

“Markie, are you going to class?” He whispers.

_No._

_Don’t make me go._

_Please_.

“You don’t have to,” he hears Renjun say absentmindedly, hand finding Mark’s head under the blanket and sifting his fingers through his hair lightly . “If you can’t, you don’t have to.”

Mark can’t bring himself to speak—feels like there’s cotton in his cheeks and ice in his throat. So instead, he nods.

“Okay,” Renjun says, fingers still in his hair. It feels nice, feels good. It distracts him a bit from the way it feels like his bed is trying to swallow him whole. “I’ll leave you broth before I leave, yeah?”

He just nods again, trying hard not to move so much to dislodge Renjun’s hand from him.

The blanket rustles and he feels a press against his head, pressure aside from Renjun’s fingers.

“Rest up,” Renjun whispers, suddenly closer.

Mark doesn’t see him leave, nor does he remember when Renjun does. He just remembers the heavy feeling and an all encompassing darkness.

(He does wake up, some time between that morning and that night. 

Renjun isn’t home yet and he doesn’t wonder why.

Mark sees a thermos on his bedside table and a yellow sticky note below it.

That’s all he sees and recalls before his eyes close in fatigue again.)

“Do you have a bouquet with stargazers, ma’am?” Mark asks, tapping his fingers against the counter and his leg fidgeting to an erratic beat. 

The lady behind the counter nods, tells him to give her a second before leaving to the door behind her. 

Mark checks his watch to distract himself.

5:00 PM. 

_Good_ , he thinks. He has enough time to shower before he goes to Renjun’s recital.

 _Get him flowers_ , Mina texted him. _You’d be an asshole not to_.

 _I already plan to_ , Mark texted her back in defense, and to be fair, he really did consider it—it’s just that there’s a tiny tickle of anxiety in him that maybe, Renjun will think it was a dumb, which then made Mark feel stupid for even considering. _I’m not that dumb_.

 _You never know with you_. Mark snarled when he read that. 

_Thanks for the vote of confidence_ , he texted back with a rolling eyes emoji.

 _Anytime, loser_.

Mark wakes up to the sound of crying.

It’s soft and painful, and everything in Mark is telling him to just ignore it—to let Renjun cry, let it all out and just respect his privacy and pretend none of this ever happened.

A part of him wants to do that. Trust him. He really does, he doesn’t like sticking his nose in other people’s business.

The other part of him though, the part that hears Renjun whisper to himself _it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay_ over and over again, wants to reach over and hold him. 

It slips before he can stop himself but he really can’t bring himself to regret it.

“Renjun?”

Mark hears the rustle of blankets and shaky breathing. “Are you awake?” Voice scratchy even to his own ears.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m awake,” Renjun says almost frantically, still as soft as midnight. 

The cogs in his brain turn to conjure up a somewhat believable line before he turns to Renjun, thankful for the night to obscure how bright and awake his eyes really are. “Can we talk for a bit? I had a nightmare and I don’t think I can fall asleep again.”

He can almost feel the sigh of relief Renjun releases. 

“Sure, Mark.”

The very next day, Mark wakes up early for his morning classes. From what he remembers, Renjun’s classes on Thursday don’t start until 10. So with light steps, he leaves the dorm, backpack in hand and heads to the bodega beside their dorms. He buys two sandwiches, one for him another for Renjun, a cookie—just in case, and two coffees. 

Ask Mark why he’s doing this for someone he barely knows and he wouldn’t be able to give you a coherent answer. He has no idea either.

(Renjun wakes up to breakfast on his desk with a baby blue sticky note stuck on the cup of his coffee.)

Mark guesses that’s where it all started.

“Hey, Mark.”

“Mm?”

“They’re holding a flea market on Broadway today. Wanna come with?”

“... Uh, I’m pretty sure the only thing you’ll find there are charity events and musical merch.”

“So?”

“Fair. I’ll change my shirt first.”

They go home that afternoon with a Waitress mug (Renjun) and a Phantom of the Opera playbill (Mark).

(Renjun catches Mark using the mug a few days later and buys him a matching one the following day.)

(Mark tacks the Phantom playbill on the wall above his dresser. The very next day, he finds a Spring Awakening one next to it.)

Sadness is an inescapable emotion, Mark quickly learns. It lingers in the corners of the room, in the moonlight hitting the curtains. In between his fingers, sadness almost feels tangible—like he can hold it tightly in his grasp, shattering it into small delicate pieces of glass.

Sadness, Mark also learns, has a companion named loneliness. They sit at the top of his ribcage as he rests on his bed, breathing as the Earth spins. Mark watches the shadows change, as it moves and dances with the trees outside. He can hear the birds sing and the distant chatter of the other occupants of the dorms outside but it feels like his ears are filled with cotton and the nebulas are in his chest. 

Nothing feels real and where he's meant to be isn't where he is currently.

(October of their second year finds the wall above Mark’s dresser to be filled with not only Broadway playbills but also playbills of small play and musical productions in NYU they saw together. Some of them are even from Renjun’s own recitals, and their common room cupboard with another two pairs of matching mugs—a Disneyland one and a ceramic cat and dog one.)

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. 

Mark wonders why he didn’t see it coming, why exactly he’s left staring at the fireworks in the far off distance, headphones filling him with the sound of Renjun’s voice.

The Earth isn’t imploding, nor is the ground beneath him shattering. And yet, he feels like the whole world has gone to a stop. Nothing comes, not firework fumes, the cars, the parties in neighboring houses, or the ruckus of his siblings in the living room. There’s nothing, the world has been put on pause and the only thing that Mark feels is Renjun’s voice and the rough concrete under his fingers.

It feels a lot like a summer shower, the realization—it’s tiny droplets on his skin until it starts to pour, a myriad of prisms against the March sun. It feels soft and painful, like he’s known it all along but never really realized it.

How peculiar is it to realize you’re in love with somebody when they aren’t even by your side?

(Mark finds it isn’t very strange, just that the loneliness resting in between the bones of his ribs, the one who made a home out of his chest, suddenly has a companion—yearning is quick to create a home out of him too, it replicates the dorm room he left behind in NYU and adds more trinkets to the walls and their desks. 

Yearning creates a future Mark wants to have. And for once, he doesn’t regret choosing New York.)


End file.
